Long Days Upon the Land
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 1.06. When the boys finally get a trail on their father, Sam and Dean embark on a dangerous journey. However, with Sam preparing for the worst, Dean must ask himself if he can still follow his father's orders, even if it could cost him everything.
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 6: Long Days Upon the Land

Authors: Faye Dartmouth and pinkphoenix1985

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

Summary: When the boys finally get a trail on their father, Sam and Dean embark on a dangerous journey to find him. However, with Sam preparing for the worst, Dean must ask himself if he can still follow his father's orders, even if it could cost him everything he has.

PART ONE

An eerie silence fell over the exhibits on display, from the cowboys standing in front of the panoramic façade to the Native Americans all standing in their circle prepared to do their dance for museum visitors, from the animals standing at attention in their nature exhibits to the ancient artifacts nestled under protective glass.

Light from a flashlight shone on the Native American artifacts and grew brighter as Larry, the night security guard, approached the exhibit on his routine sweep of the museum.

A little out of breath, he quickly swept through the remaining exhibits. It was the same as it was every night. Just him and the exhibits. Being a night watchman always sounded glamorous enough to people, but Larry figured they'd never actually done the job.

It was, in short, boring. Lock the doors--check. Set up security surveillance--check. Do hourly rounds--check. Try not to fall asleep--check. Learn how to have long conversations with himself and drink lots of coffee--check and check.

What did people think--that the exhibits would move? That someone would actually want to break in and steal ancient Indian weavings?

No, it was all a requirement. Crossing the t's and dotting the i's. Larry was just anxious to get back to his security station since his darling wife, Ann, had packed him a thermos of his favorite coffee as well as one of her homemade donuts.

As he reached his station intent on enjoying both, the lights started to flicker.

Since the generator had been on the fritz on and off during the past week, Larry shrugged to himself and settled down to enjoy his snack. Not even a minute had gone by, when the lights flickered again. It took them longer to recover this time and blinked out long enough to trip the security tape.

Which meant not only did he have to make _another _sweep--as per protocol--but he had to ensure electrical integrity.

He grumbled under his breath as he got up to go and check on the generator.

As he moodily stalked out of the security station, he failed to notice the flickering of the video image as a dark figure crossed the screen.

Muttering to himself about his frugal bosses, Larry strolled down the dim corridors that led to the generator room. This was just like the guys upstairs. So concerned with their precious funding that they'd spend fifty thousand at the drop of a hat to secure some traveling rock exhibit, but when it came to basic maintenance? Well, that simply wasn't in the budget.

Sighing, he unlocked the utility room. Switching on the lights, he moved past the equipment and found his way to the generator. Expecting to see the generator not working, he was surprised to find that it was running just fine.

Puzzled, he started to turn back, becoming more alert to his surroundings as he went. The lights were still flickering occasionally and that fact alone was making him feel very anxious as he switched from a quick stroll to jogging down the corridors.

An echoing noise sounded throughout the building.

Larry froze, his breathing quickened and fingers tensed on his stun gun. _That was not normal_, he thought to himself as he nervously glanced up and down the corridor.

The noise echoed again, louder this time, and he swallowed hard. They'd had some electrical storms lately--it could just be something related to that. Or maybe faulty wiring--this place was pretty old.

Still, the noise--it was hard to ignore.

Harder still to explain away.

Cautious, his fingers clutched tighter around the flashlight as he started to move in the direction of the Native American display.

He crept down the corridor and as he neared the exhibit, his breath caught in his throat, his fingers curling on the gun. With a burst of bravado, he shone his flashlight and--

Saw the Native American mannequins standing in their circle.

Just like he'd left them.

He was getting too old for this. Ann would tell him he needed to relax--the doctor didn't like his blood pressure as it was without his old fool mind playing tricks on him.

Laughing to himself, he searched the place once more before turning back to go to his waiting coffee and donut.

He crossed the threshold of the exhibit room, walking smooth and easy before he was yanked clear off his feet into a strong, unyielding grip.

Larry's terrified screams echoed throughout the museum, as the security camera captured his body collapsing to the ground while a dark figure loomed over his dying body, holding a knife dripping blood.

As the shadowed figure turned to leave, he lingered for a second in front of the camera. Black-eyed and smiling, John Winchester saluted the camera as he walked away from Larry's corpse.

-o-

Sunlight shone into the room, falling on the sleeping figure on the couch. The room looked old and worn. Though Bobby was not a fastidious cleaner by any stretch of the imagination, the room was even more untidy than normal. There was an assortment of weaponry spread out on the far wall near the fireplace, as well as haphazard collection of clothing spilling out of two duffle bags lying at the base of the couch. Some of the room's former glory was still visible through the patches of faded flower pattern wallpaper still on the walls.

The couch was too small for the slumbering figure, making it an uncomfortable bed. Sam had outgrown it years ago, but some habits died hard. In some ways, Sam supposed Dean was trying to be a good big brother by giving Sam the couch. In truth, Sam was pretty sure he'd prefer the floor.

Shifting, Sam attempted to find a better position, one with less pressure on the small of his back, before snuffling and attempting to ease his way back into unconsciousness.

The door on the far end of the room opened quietly, a faint creak of the hinges marring the stillness. Cautiously, Dean crept into the room, clearly doing his best not to wake Sam. The older brother sighed, and Sam heard him pick up one of the bags before padding back out of the room.

For as observant as Dean was, he didn't notice the eyes that followed him as he left the room.

Sitting up on the couch, Sam gave up the pretense of sleep. Lately, he had just...he couldn't really say. He felt lost, out of focus. Nights weren't easy and his days weren't much better. Ever since Timothy Sheldon painfully possessed him—Sam shivered at the memory—he was forced to relive Timothy's devastation when he thought that his sister had abandoned him and that he was left all alone. Contemplating the entire ordeal, Sam compared Timothy's pain to Dean's devastation of losing him.

Sam shuddered as he recalled the painful flashes he experienced while Timothy's spirit controlled him: Dean standing over him sobbing and begging Sam not to leave him—shifting from upset to anger to being achingly alone. It wasn't easy for Sam to know that his hero of a big brother really depended on him—he had always thought the opposite, since growing up he had seemed dependent on Dean for so much.

Sam knew if he hadn't been brought back then Dean would have definitely done something more drastic. That was just Dean's style. Sam didn't like to think about it, but part of him knew Dean would have tried to join Sam and their parents, as desperate and misguided as it would be. After all, they knew now their dad probably hadn't gone to Heaven, and there was no sense of where their mother had ended up after seeing her spirit and Lawrence. And given Sam's new found memories, he was fairly certain his own fate wouldn't have been much different. Sam probably would have remained a ghost, not passing over any time soon.

Still, Sam could understand the appeal. He sometimes wished it were true. That Dad and Mom were up there in Heaven together, that maybe he could have been there, too, biding his time until Dean joined him. Winchesters didn't seem meant for happy endings, though.

Nonetheless, he was grateful he and Dean had worked things out for Timothy and his sister. Sam liked to think they'd also brought peace to the siblings, seeing as Kady passed on not even minutes after she spoke to Timothy's spirit.

But whatever peace it had afforded to Kady and Timothy, it seemed to have stripped Sam of his. Ever since his death and resurrection, he'd felt...off, that much was undeniable. But actually _remembering _it, feeling what it was like to _die_, to wander as a ghost--it was an entirely different thing. It was dark and it was hollowing, as though his soul had been ripped so harshly from his body that it was left in tatters.

The experience with Timothy had left Sam addled with nightmares. Dreams and visions had always been his curse, even before he knew of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's presence in his life. But now, the dreams were different. Dark and visceral. And they all started out the same: Dean, standing over Sam's bloodied body.

What was weird was that the dreams started off just like the flashes he'd experienced right after his resurrection. The same dark, uncertain feel, but then they changed. Sometimes, Dean would stop crying and just laugh gleefully while saying that it was good Sam was dead. Other times, Dean would talk to him and try to convince him to come back and finish what he started—killing Jake, since it was his destiny.

As difficult to understand as those could be, there were even more variations, like when a glowing figure appeared beside Dean and gestured towards Sam. He liked to think of his mother when he recalled those particular versions, that she was there to guide Sam or to comfort Dean. But the presence never stayed, and it was gone before Sam could feel any of its warmth, and it left him hollow and colder than ever.

In the end, any variation of the dream left Sam feeling restless. Sometimes, the dreams were so bad, so _intense_, that he would lay awake for most of the night, not wanting to fall asleep and dream at all.

It seemed like there should be closure in remembering. Some kind of letting go. But Sam still didn't know why it had happened--why he'd been in Cold Oak to begin with. What had the demon wanted? What had brought him back? Would he ever feel whole again?

He wondered if Dean could tell that there was something wrong with him, something missing in him. He hoped to God that Dean didn't because Sam didn't know how he would handle that. His own self-loathing was hard enough to deal with; thinking about enduring it from Dean as well...well, it was the one thing Sam wasn't sure he could survive.

Sam knew Dean would never let on, even if he did sense something off about Sam. That was the way Dean was; he would lie to Sam's face if he thought it was for the best.

Sam couldn't help but be grateful to have a brother who would do that for him.

That still didn't change the fact that Sam had darkness in him, though--nothing would. It didn't change his doubts either, not only about himself, but that his brother would wake up and see Sam for who he really was--for _what _he really was. And it certainly didn't change the fact that Dean had more thoughts about this than he was letting on. After all, Dean was sneaking out of the room before him, casting forlorn looks his way and giving weary sighs. This wasn't easy on Dean either--not Sam, not their dad, and there was something else with Dean that Sam couldn't quite place yet.

Sam figured His big brother had his secrets, and if Sam weren't so intent on keeping his own that might bother him more. But they were both different since Cold Oak, in good and bad ways, and Sam wondered if they'd ever face up to the fact that things really weren't going to be the same. Not anymore. Not with Sam's so-called miraculous resurrection. Not with their father...

But if Dean didn't have to talk about the various pink elephants in the room, then Sam didn't either. Sam couldn't deny certain truths, but that didn't mean he was ready to face them. Especially when it came to his death.

With a sigh, Sam shook his head at his dark thoughts. He couldn't run from his destiny. With that, he got up to get dressed before joining Dean and Bobby for breakfast. After all, this stop at Bobby's wasn't pleasure--it was all business.

Normally, Sam might have found that wearisome. But these days, he was willing to take any distraction he could get.

Throwing his legs over the side of the couch, he rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out of his back. Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, he padded toward the kitchen mentally bracing himself. Time to face another day; maybe focusing on something else would take his mind off things.

Bobby had been very cryptic two nights before when he had first called Sam's cell. All he said was that they should just get their asses over to his place on the double.

Sam had glanced at Dean, who was eyeing the cute blonde waitress serving them and told him what Bobby had said. They immediately paid and left, changing their direction and starting toward Bobby's. They had arrived after midnight, and Bobby had directed them to their usual sleeping quarters in the living room and said they would talk in the morning.

Sam wondered what Bobby wanted to talk to them about; it was highly unlikely that it was about his salvage place and how well it was doing. No--it had to do with something else. Given Bobby's reluctance to broach the topic at all on the phone or when they'd arrived, Sam could only figure that Bobby was nervous about the conversation.

Bobby Singer was many things, but nervous was not among them. No, as far as Sam could tell, there were really only two things that could make Bobby this uncertain: the opening of the devil's trap in Wyoming and _him_, that demon who dared parade around in John Winchester's meatsuit.

The first was bad. The second was worse. And since Bobby had already helped them figure out that the demons were working toward the apocalypse now, he could only guess that Bobby's news related to their father--or the thing that _looked _like their father.

Grimacing, Sam swallowed hard. If that was the case, Sam hoped that Dean didn't take the news too badly, knowing his brother and his hero-ship of their father. More than anything, Sam didn't want to see Dean get hurt.

"Morning," he said as he crossed over to the counter to pop some bread in the toaster.

Dean and Bobby looked up from their respective breakfasts, chorusing, "Morning."

Sam offered a meager reply and eased into a seat, pouring himself a cup of coffee and a bowl full of cereal. "So," he said. "What's so important?"

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes a little.

Bobby shot him a glare. He took a sip of coffee, swallowed hard, and looked at Sam. "Enjoy your breakfast, first," he said.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Since when do we put the hunt second?"

"Since today," Bobby groused. "Now eat."

The message was clear enough. Sam had enough to deal with. Whatever Bobby's mystery news was, Sam supposed he should be grateful for the reprieve, however brief.

Even without talk of Bobby's news, it was a slightly tense breakfast. Sam kept catching Dean shooting him weird looks and he sighed to himself. Dean never could leave well enough alone. He had to butt in and get involved no matter how much Sam didn't want him to. Sam tried to ignore him by chatting to Bobby about books they had both read lately. Bobby was cool like that—being able to talk shop with Dean and talk about books and intellectual subjects with Sam.

It wasn't long after they had all finished eating when Sam turned to Bobby. They'd made enough small talk and exhausted the friendly topics. "So now can you tell us about this hunt you mentioned?" he asked.

Bobby looked grim. "You ain't gonna like it."

Sam thought it was probably about Wyoming since Bobby didn't seem have a lot of good news lately. And well, anything to do with Wyoming was always news nobody liked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, we haven't liked much of anything lately, so how will this be any different?"

Bobby sighed and turned around to go wash the breakfast plates, nodding a thanks to Sam who stood up and was clearing the table. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

-o-

Ten minutes later, they all gathered in the living room, standing in front of a rather pathetic looking TV. Scowling, Bobby dusted it a little and then maneuvered a VHS tape into the battered VCR.

Dean wondered what Bobby wanted to show them. He glanced at Sam, who looked resigned and determined at the same time.

_Huh, so Sam figured things out with that gigantic head of his_, Dean thought to himself. He wasn't surprised Sam had kept another thing from him. Sam had been keeping a lot from him recently and he was growing tired of it.

Lately, he was just tired, period. Ever since the hunt with Timothy Sheldon, Sam had been having nightmares and since they slept in the same room, they also kept Dean up. What was worse about it was that Sam hadn't spoken to him about them. He was keeping secrets from him and Dean didn't like it.

It wasn't like he had much of a leg to stand on in that regard, though, not that he'd ever let on to Sam. Dean's own nightmares were still hit and miss, but when they were on, they were _on. _Dean knew the only reason Sam hadn't pounced on them yet was because he was so afflicted with his own.

Which was what really mattered. Dean could deal with no sleep and freaky-assed dreams. But his instincts about Sam were screaming that something wasn't right with his little brother, and _that _was something that Dean just wasn't cool with.

Ever since the Yellow-Eyed Demon had returned Sam from _wherever _he'd been, the kid had been different. As much as he didn't want to admit it, that scared Dean. That scared Dean a _lot. _What if Sam wasn't Sam? He couldn't deal with that, especially since there was the possibility that their Dad was alive.

God, he was just so bone tired.

But there wasn't time to be tired. Dean couldn't afford it.

If Bobby wanted to talk about the hunt, Dean would talk about the hunt, even if the older hunter was being pretty vague about the whole thing.

"Ever heard of DVDs?" Dean asked, quirking his lips into a smile he didn't quite feel. Bobby was a man of contradictions. Smart enough to ward off any demon or supernatural creature, while being still old school enough to be comfortable using the aged VHS.

"This is a bit of a bootlegged copy," Bobby explained with exasperation. "It was hard to get as it was."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"A copy from a video surveillance feed from the Natural History Museum at Western Wyoming College."

Dean made a face. So much for a distraction. They'd had more than enough to do in that part of the world recently. From Sam's miraculous resurrection to the devil's gate opening one of the seals of the apocalypse...yeah, he was pretty sure that nothing good could come out of the North American Rockies.

Bobby hit play and Sam leaned forward to get a closer look. "What are we looking for?"

Bobby sat back, his posture ominously guarded. "You'll see."

They watched the guard's routine sweep of the museum, nothing unusual happening. Boring footage of a pudgy old guy making his lonely rounds. Then, Dean shook his head. For a second there, he could have sworn that he saw the lights flicker. It was a slight thing, only there for a second before the footage seemed mundane once again.

He chuckled to himself. This was definitely the result of sleep derivation-- he hadn't been getting much sleep lately. Between Sam and himself, coffee could only take him so far.

But then the lights flickered again and next to him, Sam sat up in his chair abruptly, shoulders stiff and at attention. Apparently, he saw it too.

_Huh, So I'm not going crazy_, Dean thought to himself. That was somehow reassuring. Ghosts and demons were a step up from insanity any day.

He glanced back at the screen, focusing again, as a dark figure came into the picture.

There was something strangely familiar about it--the way it moved, the shape of it.

The way it wielded the knife as it sliced the guard's throat.

Sam whispered something like a prayer--or a curse, Dean wasn't sure which.

In the back of his mind, Dean wondered what the point was. It wasn't like faith had gotten Sam very far at this point.

Just then, the figure turned to the camera, saluting them. Bobby hit pause on John Winchester's smiling face caught mid-gesture.

Dean was stunned. It couldn't be, not him. Dean had spent the last few months doing his best _not _to think about their father's unexpected appearance in Cold Oak, and, in many ways, Dean liked to pretend it never happened. There were plenty of distractions these days, anyway. When he did think about it, he preferred to keep the memory selective. After all, he was a fan of his father being alive. The black eyes? Not so much.

But Dean couldn't deny it: if Dad _was _alive, that meant something. A whole lot of something. It meant that there was hope, that maybe they could be a family again. That was what he wanted to think about--that and _only _that.

But this? A smiling black-eyed father who had just committed murder?

It just wasn't possible. That wasn't Dean's father.

Sam found his voice first. "And it hasn't been tampered with?"

Bobby shook his head. "I got it from a buddy of mine in the area. He was following some demonic signs that led him straight to Rock Spring. When he got access to the tape, he recognized your daddy and made a copy for me. As a courtesy."

Dean was incredulous. "A courtesy for what?"

Bobby didn't answer and looked away from Dean's glare. Sam looked down at his feet.

Dean hardened himself. "It can't be what it looks like." He refused to believe it. He couldn't.

Sam lifted his eyes, meeting Dean's gaze with something akin to sympathy. "Dean," he said softly.

"No, Sam," Dean insisted, his hackles rising. He knew their dad. John Winchester was stronger than this. Dean knew that fact as well as he knew his own name.

"We don't know what happened to him," Sam said, his voice measured.

"Exactly," Dean countered. "We don't know. So why are you always assuming the worst about him?"

Sam knew how to push buttons, that much was true, and when it came to Dad, it seemed like they weren't capable of having a conversation without things going south. Ever since Sam and Dean were kids, it had been like that and recent events certainly hadn't made things any easier. Sam was still the same petulant bastard he always was, looking for reasons to nitpick at the old man. If there was a worst case scenario when it came to John, Sam would find it. Hell, Sam would find it and then top it off with something ludicrous, just to make his point.

Dean had patience for it sometimes. But he'd had too little sleep and seen too much crap since Wyoming to deal with this now.

Pissed off at Sam--that he could even think that about their dad--he stepped closer to Sam.

Sam pursed his lips and straightened to his full height, shooting daggers at Dean, but saying nothing.

For a tense minute, the brothers stared at each other in angry silence. Time stood still as they glared at each other, neither wanting to make the first move. Sam looked determined, reminding Dean of how he had looked all those years ago, when he had stood defiant against their father, determined to go to college and make his own way in the world.

Sam was always the rebellious one in the family, Dean thought as he stared his brother down. This wasn't any different. Sam would run the other way if it meant defending their dad and helping him. It was crazy to think that Sam had a bleeding heart for anyone else--hell, even monsters--but not for their father. It shouldn't have surprised Dean that Sam chose the side that he did. Some things would never change--for as bright as Sam was, there were some lessons that the selfish prick would never get.

But enough was enough. Dean had run more than his share of interference for Sam when they were growing up. Dean was going to take his stand. For family.

"Whether or not it's your daddy, one thing is for sure: it's demonic and it was after something specific," Bobby cautiously interjected, glancing from the one brother to the other.

Sam's posture eased somewhat, his stance givingin ever so slightly to the break in tension. "Did you find out what it took?" he asked.

Bobby nodded. "The only thing missin' from the place was a Native American relic."

"What kind of relic?" Dean asked, relieved that the subject about Dad had been dropped for now.

"A worm pipe," Bobby explained, putting an open book in front of the boys. "It's from the Blackfoot tribe and goes way back. Historians have tried to date the thing, but have had a hell of a time getting an exact read on it."

Sam looked thoughtful as he processed the information. "I've heard of this," he said. "It was sort of a medicinal pipe, right?"

Dean snorted as he made a face. Sam always had a knack for obscure knowledge. It was amazing he ever got a girl.

Sam shrugged and rolled his eyes at his brother.

Bobby nodded. "A mythic one at that. This one is rumored to have supernatural healing powers."

"So it can cure the common cold," Dean said. He was fast losing patience with all this talk. None of this mattered. This had nothing to do with their dad. "I don't see why it's worth stealing or how it would involve Dad."

"Well, this one is a little more powerful than that," Bobby explained pointing to the relevant passage. "The story goes that a grieving widower wanted to get his wife back. When he went on a journey, he got in contact with the ghosts. He appealed to them for help, and after awhile, they agreed by giving him this pipe."

"And let me guess," Dean said. "It worked, right? Guy gets his wife back? Otherwise it'd be a hell of a bad story."

Bobby was not amused. "The legend is well documented."

"And like I love to remind Sammy here, so are unicorns."

Sam rolled his eyes, shook his head. "So you think it's legitimate?" he asked Bobby.

Dean groaned. "I'm still not seeing what this has to do with Dad."

"The power to raise the dead? That doesn't sound a little apocalyptic to you?" Bobby asked.

At that remark, Dean felt slightly sheepish. At best, he would have loved to say _no_ but he knew that the prospect of an impending apocalypse was their fault.

"What would have that kind of power?" he asked. "Native American rituals have some pretty powerful connections, but raising people from the dead?"

Bobby didn't know. "The best I can think of is the origin of the pipe. It's said to be from the Worm People."

"Sounds lovely," Dean said.

"Kind of a nomadic tribe, from what I can gather."

"So they may not be real," Dean concluded.

Sam looked annoyed. "Native American legends are some of the most reliable ones we deal with."

"So even if it is for real," Dean conceded, "I'm still not seeing how this relates to Dad."

Bobby looked away from them. He seemed very uncomfortable discussing this. Dean supposed it was because of the long rocky friendship that Bobby and John had over the years. At times, they might have been at each other's throats over a disagreement, but that didn't mean they weren't loyal to one another.

After all, Dean knew from personal experience that sometimes it was the people you cared about the most that riled you beyond the point of no return.

Dean realized that, while he and Sam were focused on the fact their dad might possibly be alive and need help, Bobby was also caught up in this mess. Some of it by default, but Bobby made his choices, too, and after everything, it was clear Bobby was here of his own volition. He'd seen them through John's death. He'd been with Dean when Sam went missing. Hell, he'd been there when Sam died. Family was more than blood--maybe for the first time in his life, Dean was ready to admit that.

And Dean supposed that was what family was for—supporting each other in times of need. This wasn't easy for Bobby--not just telling them, but thinking John might be a problem after all.

It was Sam who continued. "If the pipe really can raise the dead--"

"Then who knows who--or what--John intends to raise," Bobby said.

"No matter what happens, I think that we need to stop it as quickly as possible. Who knows what else Dad wants to bring back from the dead?" Sam said.

Dean shot him a glare, his jaw set, but his younger brother seemed oblivious. This was more than petulant teenage rebellion. This was more than holding a grudge. This was Sam talking about their _father_. The man who had raised them, kept them safe--and Sam and Bobby were going at it like John was just another monster to be hunted.

But neither Sam nor Bobby noticed how quiet Dean had gotten while they discussed what to do.

"We might have to kill John, you know." Bobby looked at Sam who nodded.

At Bobby's last remark, Dean had finally had enough. His limits had been pushed. He turned away in a huff, blowing out a harsh breath before glaring daggers at Sam and Bobby. "We don't even know if it's him and you're both acting like it's a done deal."

Sam's voice was soft, but his words were unyielding. "Dean, you saw him back in Wyoming."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. He saw a lot in Wyoming, things that he would love to erase from his memory. "I also saw you come back from the dead, so should I start asking if you're evil?"

Sam blanched a little. A tiny twinge of guilt went through Dean at the stunned look on his brother's face. Dean didn't care that he had hurt him, though. Sam should have been supporting him on this issue and not siding with Bobby. This was _Dad _they were talking about.

Then he realized just what he'd said to Sam. That Sam had been dead and still could be evil. Dean never ever even considered the possibility but it was clear from the wounded look on Sam's face that he had been thinking about it.

Dean sighed. He would have to make it up to Sammy somehow, but for now—

For now they needed to focus on what they could fix.

"Sammy, I'm sorry," he said. He shook his head. "That was a low blow, man. I know that you're just looking out for me and for Dad. This isn't easy on either of us."

Sam still looked hurt, but nodded in thanks for Dean's apology.

Bobby glanced sadly between the brothers. "Look, this ain't easy for any of us," he began doggedly.

That was the understatement of the century. "But, Bobby, I don't believe that it is Dad," Dean interrupted, with equal determination.

Bobby shook his head, "Dean, you've got to face facts. This doesn't look good and we need to check it out and do something about it. Even if it's John."

As opposed to much of this situation as Dean was, Dean wasn't unreasonable. He was still a hunter--and a damn smart one at that. Bobby's statement had something of a plea in it. The older hunter was telling the truth when he said this wasn't easy for any of them.

With resignation, Dean nodded. "I'll do it," he agreed. "But only to prove to you two that what we're seeing here isn't what it seems."

Bobby seemed satisfied that he had him on board. Sam, on the other hand was withdrawn. Dean could relate to him on that front because it was exactly how he felt about the whole thing.

"So how do we go about finding our mystery video man?" Dean asked, resigned.

At that, Bobby sighed. "I wish I knew. I've started to look for different signs or demonic sightings and nothing. It's literally like he's made of smoke."

"There's just nothing?" Sam asked quietly.

"Maybe we should try and look at it from a different—" Dean began to say as his phone started to ring.

Surprised, Dean pulled his phone out. On the screen flashed an out-of-state number he didn't recognize. He didn't get many calls as it was, and he had made a point to keep his number on the downlow after their recent run-ins with the law.

"Who is it?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him. "I don't know."

"You going to answer it?" Bobby prompted.

Reluctant, and feeling a growing dread, Dean flipped open the phone and brought it up to his ear. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line made his insides go cold.

The voice that had taught him how to fire a gun.

The voice that had explained how to use protection when with a girl.

The voice that had told him to _watch out for Sammy_.

The voice that had told him if he couldn't save Sam, he might have to kill him.

The voice Dean knew better than his own, the one that spoke in the back of his head, telling him which way to go, which instincts to trust. A voice of strength and safety and being _sure_.

Only it was harder now, with a jagged edge that seemed to slice through his brain.

"Dad."


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Heart pounding, Dean clutched the phone closer to his ear. He felt terrified and excited all at once. It was almost like he was a kid again, waiting anxiously for Dad's safe return home. Waiting to know if Dad was okay, that he'd made it through another successful hunt in one piece. Dean had lived for those moments when Dad would come home and the three of them could just be the family they were supposed to be, supporting each other in this frightening reality of monsters and demons. In those moments, they just were a family, a father and his two loving sons. Dean had always believed his dad was a super hero, but that never made the waiting any easier, no matter how old he got.

People died--parents died--and sometimes it was hard for Dean to trust in the fact his father would come back to Sam and him. The possibility was always at the back of his mind, that Dad might go up in smoke and be gone forever, just like Mom.

As hard as it was to believe that Dad could be alive, Dean wanted it to be true. Wanted it so bad he could feel it in his bones. For all the issues, for all the hurt, for everything that happened—he was still Dean's father. Dean owed him everything and he could never forget that. Not even now.

He swallowed hard. "Dad?"

"Hello, Dean," John replied.

He tried to think of something to say. Anything. Nothing sounded right.

"Is your brother with you?"

That sounded enough like his dad, always worrying about Sam--and him. About the family. He always wanted Dean to check in with him, let him know that the doors were locked and the salt lines were laid. That Sam was tucked in safe and that the shotgun was loaded.

Dean's throat tightened. "Sam's right here," he said, as he turned his back on Bobby and Sam, in part to keep the conversation private and partly to shield Sam from John even though he wasn't in the room.

"Always the big brother," John said, sounding a little amused. "Good to see you didn't throw out everything I taught you."

Dean's heart twinged. How could he ever forget? _You have to save your brother or kill him_ still ran through his mind. No, it was unlikely that he would ever forget. He remembered everything from that first order--_take your brother outside as fast as you can_--to the last.

"You always were my good soldier, Dean," John crooned over the line.

The words were a compliment and the inflection was right. But it felt wrong and Dean knew it. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew. This wasn't the man who made the monsters go away. This wasn't his dad. This wasn't his hero.

He had to keep it together, though. Whatever this was, he couldn't afford to tip his hand. He had to let this thing take the lead to see what it wanted.

"Where are you?" he asked, his voice on edge, hand gripping the phone tightly.

"Dean," John said, sounding a little disappointed. "A smart hunter never reveals his location."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut in anger. This thing wasn't a hunter. It couldn't be. It had to be something else.

He opened his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. Sam and Bobby were behind him, closer than Dean felt comfortable with. He tried to keep his voice light. "Just wanted to know what my old man was up to."

"I'm older than you think," John replied. "I gave you back a lifetime and gained an eternity for it."

Dean's guilt flared in his belly. He took a quick glance at Sam, who looked like he wanted to rip the phone away from him. Bobby just seemed uncomfortable to be witnessing the conversation between father and son, but hell, Bobby was like a father to him and Sam, and Dean was suddenly relieved to have him there. He wasn't sure he could do this alone.

Dean could handle most things. He could take any supernatural creature and most human ones. But family was his weakness. It was the only thing that really scared him--the thing he was scared to lose, the thing he was scared to need.

Family was about sacrifice. Dean had sacrificed everything for his family. And they'd given him everything in return. It was easier to give than receive, though, and his father's death hadn't just been hard because he missed John. It hadn't even been hard because of his father's last order.

It had been hard because John had died for Dean. He'd only suspected at first, but the Crossroads Demon had confirmed what Dean had suspected. Their father had made a deal for Dean's life. Sure, Dean had known what that meant. He'd hunted down the damn demon who offered those deals. But he'd never let himself think about it. An eternity...in _Hell_.

"Kind of quiet over there, aren't we?" John asked. "That's not like you."

"Well," Dean said, his throat tight. "Seeing as you are supposed to be dead, I'm having a hard time coming up with something to say."

"Death seems to be a common Winchester flaw," John said, then he whistled low and cold. "Some of us just overcome it in better ways than the rest."

It was the wrong thing to say, and John should have known it. His father could get to him like no one else, but no one threatened Sam--not on his watch. The implication was subtle, but it was there. "Like you?" Dean said, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

"I'm still your father," John told him flatly. "And I know just what you're doing."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, trying to sound cocky, but faltering.

"I know you've seen the video."

Dean swallowed. No more small talk, then. "Bobby seems to think it's you."

Beside him, Bobby shifted uncomfortably as Sam edged closer to Dean.

"Bobby never was a very good friend," John replied coolly.

Dean tried to stay calm. He moved away from Sam, who again tried to grab the phone from him, while avoiding Bobby's persistent gaze.

"It's pretty convincing," Dean said, as he walked towards the kitchen.

"Really?" John asked conversationally. "What part did you like the most? The sneaking? Or maybe the part where I slit the guard's throat without him even seeing me."

Dean steeled himself. "The black eyes sort of sell it."

"I spent over a hundred years in Hell," John said, and his voice sounded grim. Tired. Resigned.

Dean had recognized shades of his father throughout the conversation, but that tone--that weary acceptance--it was the first time it had been John, one hundred percent, no question. Not just a close approximation, not just an impostor. But John Winchester. His _father._

Sam and Bobby had been right about that much.

But they were wrong about the rest. It wasn't just a sign that this was their father's body--this was a sign that John Winchester--the hunter, the man, the father--was still in there. No matter what he'd done, no matter what he said--his father was in there, and he was worth saving.

Which meant that Dean would save him. No matter what, Dean would save his father.

John's voice continued. "Do you know how long that is?" he asked. "How many _years_ of torture? You can't get out of that without carrying some kind of scar."

It made Dean want to cry. His father in Hell. Tortured. One hundred years. For _him_. "So are you--are you...?"

"A demon?" John asked, an air of humor in his voice. "All humans are demons. Some of us just more than others. Ask your brother, Dean. He should understand."

Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, who looked a bit desperate. Face pleading, he made another swipe at the phone, but Dean dodged it. With a deep breath, Dean turned away and forced himself to keep it together. "Did you take the pipe?"

"I've done what I had to do."

"So, you really did kill the guard?"

"I already told you that," John told him simply.

Dean's mouth clamped shut, his lips thinning. It took an effort to force himself to speak again. "You could have gotten out of there without killing him."

"There's a bigger picture, Dean," John said. "I have things I have to do."

"What things?" Dean pressed.

"Let's just say that when I'm done, killing one security guard really won't seem so bad."

Dean stifled a curse and closed his eyes. "I can't let you do that."

"You can't _not_ let me," John said. "More than that, you can't stop me. This is already in motion, Dean. Consider this your fair warning to stay away. Stay with your brother and don't follow me."

With that, the call disconnected, leaving Dean breathless and not knowing what to think.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "What did he say?"

He owed Sam an answer. Bobby, too. But what could he tell them? What was there to say?

"Dean?" Sam asked again.

Dean turned, meeting his brother's eyes briefly. Then, looking down, he just shook his head. "We have to go."

"Go?" Sam asked. "Dean, go where--what did Dad--"

"Sam, I don't know!" he snapped, his entire body feeling tense.

"Don't know what? If it was him? What he wanted? Dean, come on--"

"Damn it, Sam, give me a minute," Dean said, looking at Sam again, a hint of desperation and fury in his eyes. "We just saw the video and you and Bobby want to charge in guns blazing and then Dad calls and tells me to stay the hell away."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Stay away? From what? What's he planning--"

"Just stop," Dean said. He didn't try to hide the undercurrent of pleading in his voice. "Just--_stop_. Please."

At that, Sam swallowed, looking stricken. He nodded shortly. "What do you need me to do?" he asked quietly.

"Just--give me some time," Dean said, running a hand through his hair. "I need to think."

With that, he left Sam and Bobby downstairs and walked up to the room that he and Sam shared, grateful that neither of them followed.

-o-

In all the years they'd been coming to Bobby's, the place never really changed. Sure, sometimes it was messier than others, and the selection of books out and about was always changing, but beyond that, it was about as consistent as anything had been in their childhood. The spare room where he and Sam slept had the same clapboard paneling and faded orange shag carpeting. It would be an interior decorator's nightmare, but Dean had always liked the ambiance it gave.

Especially in the weeks following their father's death. With the Impala in Bobby's shop, this had been the closest Dean had to home.

It wasn't much comfort now.

Not with his father out there--not dead, but part demon. Stealing ancient artifacts. Killing people. Telling him to stay away.

Dean was a good soldier. He always followed orders. Which meant he should just hole up here, spend some more time in Bobby's shop and pretend like he'd never seen that video or gotten that phone call.

That was what good soldiers did. They followed orders.

This one was hard to follow.

He'd had hard orders before. Orders to hold position even when something was charging him. Orders to let Sam play bait even though he knew it could get Sam hurt. Orders to stay locked in a motel room when he wanted to be out there, hunting with his dad. Orders that if he didn't save Sam, he might have to kill him.

Dean had doubted before, but he didn't disobey.

He _didn't_.

Sighing, he flopped back on his bed. It was still unmade, and he stared at the ceiling. He had failed a few of them, but straight out mutiny? After his father had gone to Hell for him?

It wasn't right.

But nothing was right about this. Nothing had been right since the night Azazel had possessed their father in the cabin. That night, the demon had tried to rip Dean's insides out through his mouth. It had been the worst pain he'd ever known.

It didn't hold a candle to this.

It still felt like there was a hand in his gut, crushing and turning. Dean wasn't bleeding, but he felt like he was. All of his emotions, all of his faith and stability--they were hemorrhaging away. From losing Sam in Cold Oak, to getting him back, from Sam's nightmares of the afterlife, to his own that he didn't understand, from their father's mysterious appearance, to John's dark agenda.

And what was Dean going to do about it? He'd been helpless in the cabin in Missouri. He'd been helpless in Cold Oak. He'd been helpless in Wyoming. He didn't want to be helpless now.

He couldn't just sit here and do nothing.

He'd been wrong in Chicago after the confrontation with Meg and the Daevas. They weren't better off apart. They were stronger together.

Dean just needed them together.

He owed his father so much. He owed it to him to be the good soldier--the good son.

If only he knew what that meant.

A soft knock came at the door.

Surprised, Dean sat up, hoping his uncertainty wasn't showing.

The door cracked open and his brother's head appeared. "Dean?" Sam asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Just peachy."

Sam nodded a little. "I thought you might be hungry." He gave a half hearted shrug. "Lunch is downstairs if you want to eat."

"Sure," Dean said. "Just give me a sec."

Sam hesitated in the doorway, but after a long moment, he nodded. "Okay," he said simply, turning back and closing the door behind him.

Dean listened as Sam's footsteps echoed down the hallway. Dean wasn't ready to talk about it yet, but Sam was a part of this, too. They all were. Whatever decisions Dean made, they would affect them all.

Which made it Dean's responsibility. Just like it always had been.

This time, however, he couldn't afford to fail.

-o-

Half an hour later, Sam found himself aimlessly pushing his dinner around on his plate. It had been a few hours since Dad had called Dean. His brother hadn't said much about it, but Sam knew that it wasn't good. He glanced at Dean, who was staring off into space not eating any of his meal. Sam just wished Dean could trust him enough to let him in.

But that seemed about the way it went. If there was a major secret, Sam couldn't be trusted with it, not by anyone.

He couldn't help but wonder if they were all correct.

He peered over at his brother, who looked miserable and withdrawn. Sam had never seen his brother like this. Not since...not since their father died.

Dad had always that effect on Dean. His brother continually wanted to do the best he could by their father even when it wasn't rational. It would all be easier to swallow if Sam knew what Dean was thinking. But sometimes Dean was like their dad in more ways than he'd admit. When things got tough, Dean got need-to-know, and to that, Sam had no recourse.

He glanced over at Bobby's empty chair. Bobby had finished quickly so he could go back and continue researching. Research--that was something that Sam should be doing, but he honestly didn't know where to start looking. And he wasn't sure his brother would let him even if he tried.

Sam sighed to himself, he really should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn't. He had to know. He always had. "What did he sound like?" he asked.

Dean looked at him, glaring a bit.

"Dad, I mean," Sam continued awkwardly.

Dean scowled. "I know who you meant."

Sam hesitated but asked again.

Dean shrugged and replied softly. "It sounded like Dad."

"And?"

"And what, Sammy?" Dean growled, clearly wary of the way this conversation was headed. Sam recognized that tone--the angry big brother, one step down from a drill sergeant father. Sam was the last in line for the chain of command and he was generally on the need-to-know.

At least, that was how it had always been. Too much had happened since Sam's childhood. Sam wouldn't stand for it now--and they couldn't afford it. Not with their father's life possibly on the line. "Dean, I need to know," he persisted. "You can't protect me from this forever. What did Dad say? Do you think that it's really him?"

"Sam, this isn't something you need to know."

"Oh, yeah," Sam said with an indignant snort. "Just like I didn't need to know what Dad's last order to you was."

Dean's eyes narrowed at him. "Yeah, since you handled it so well."

"Don't change the subject, Dean," Sam said. "We're talking about Dad."

"No, you're talking about Dad," Dean pointed out.

"Dean, I deserve to know."

Dean gave a weary sigh, his eyes going to the ceiling. "Sam--"

Sam would not relinquish this. Not now. "Dean--"

"Fine!" Dean snapped, turning fiery eyes back to Sam. "I'll tell you what he said—he said he gave up his life for me and it landed him in Hell. Not just for a year, but _one hundred years_. A hundred years being tortured by demons in _Hell_. That's the price he paid for _my_ life!"

Sam had wanted answers, and he'd suspected it would be bad, but the truth of it was harder than he imagined. "Hell?" Sam asked, going a little numb. They'd suspected that John had made a deal, but they'd never had confirmation until now. They'd never even talked about it, not since the hunt with the Crossroads Demon.

Sam had always thought he'd like to know for sure, that somehow it would help him make peace.

It didn't.

"Hell," Dean confirmed, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then he met Sam's eyes again, and Sam could see the pain written clearly in them. "Anything else you think you need to know?"

Sam felt his heart skip a beat. His brother looked miserable. "This isn't your fault," he said, easily moving from anger to concern.

But once a big brother, always a big brother. Dean didn't want to hear it. "No, it is my fault, Sammy," Dean said. "If he never made that deal for me, I would be dead and he wouldn't have had to suffer in Hell!"

"Yeah, you'd be _dead,_" Sam pointed out. "Dad did what he had to do."

"And look what good it did him," Dean told him. "No wonder he doesn't want me anywhere near him. How am I supposed to even go on living knowing what he gave up for me?"

"Dean, that's not the way it is," Sam said.

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Then tell me, smart ass. How is it?"

Sam inhaled, pressing his lips together. "Dad made that decision by himself because he loved you and wanted to save you," he whispered softly.

Dean silently stared at his plate, his expression thoughtful. "I know," he said. "Which is why we have to do this the right way."

Sam cocked his head. "Do what the right way?"

"Go after Dad the right way," Dean said, looking up and meeting Sam's eyes with a new intensity. "I just know that Dad's still in there somewhere, trying to break whatever has a hold on him. We've got to save him. I've got to save him"

Sam nodded. His brother was truly passionate about few things, but family was one of them. It was something Sam had never doubted in his brother, that no matter what, Dean would do what needed to be done. It was his brother's greatest strength. No matter what they agreed or disagreed on, Sam had to support his brother as best he could.

"If we can—we should try and save him," Sam said. Then he paused, hesitating. "But Dean, you also have to realize that there's also a chance that it really is Dad in there and not a demon just wearing his meatsuit."

Sam flinched as Dean's gaze hardened into a glare. He could read that look as well, when Dean was past his limit. His brother had a short fuse that could be easily lit, and Sam knew he was treading on dangerous ground. It was a tightrope between protecting Dean's life and protecting Dean's heart. He had to preserve Dean's hope in their father's well-being while also making sure Dean was prepared for this hunt--no matter how it went down.

For all they knew, that was Dad's real voice, and there was a chance that he had become a demon. Which would be worse than possession, worse than a shifter. It was the worst case scenario, plain and simple. Sam didn't want it to be true, but he knew Winchesters weren't overly lucky when it came to this kind of thing.

More than that, Sam knew that there was no way that Dad would accept living the rest of eternity as a demon. The least they could do to respect him was to kill him so that he could rest in peace.

Dean knew it, too. He just didn't want to admit it.

Finally, his brother sighed. "Yeah," Dean nodded at Sam. "If we can't save him, we'll kill him."

Sam bit his lip and nodded back.

The decision was made.

-o-

After Dean and Sam finished eating and cleared their plates off the table, they went to the library area where Bobby was already knee deep in research, books strewn all around him and looking more than a little wild eyed.

As they found places to sit down and join him in research—Dean sitting closer to him while Sam sat further away--Bobby looked up.

"Good of you idjits to come and join me."

Dean chuckled. "So what have you found so far?"

"Well, I can't be sure since the lore on the apocalypse is all over the place," Bobby said. "I mean, we've got the Christian tradition, Jewish interpretations, Muslim beliefs, and that doesn't even begin to touch the pagan stuff. But I think that I've finally found a lead on the pipe."

Sam got up to see what Bobby was talking about while Dean leaned over. Bobby opened an old, heavy looking book and pointed to a passage written half in Latin and half in Old English.

"Well, the original story talks about how the pipe brought back the man's wife," Bobby said.

"Yeah, but it dates back way further than that," Sam said.

"Exactly. So I traced some other ancient nomadic tribes and found a hit on a special medicinal pipe in a Nordic legend," Bobby said.

Dean made a face. "Nordic seems pretty far removed from the Native Americans."

"I know," Bobby said. "But we don't know who the Worm People were or where they were from."

"So how can we be sure it's the right legend?"

Bobby pursed his lips, pointing to the page. "Look at the details," he said.

Dean let his eyes pass over the page. His knowledge of ancient languages was hit and miss, but he could make out enough of the Latin to start to get a sense. The pieces fell into place slowly, and a sense of trepidation came over him.

Sam beat him to it. "This is more than a simple ritual to raise the dead," he said, sounding a little surprised. He glanced up, looking from Dean to Bobby.

"Yep," Bobby confirmed. "I mean, the power to raise humans--that's some dark stuff. This? Is a whole lot more And it says here that the pipe is an essential component, and it's pretty damn powerful. It can raise anything or anyone."

Dean sat back, thinking. "So who would Dad want to raise bad enough to steal the pipe?"

"Well, that's the thing," Bobby continued. "This pipe has demonic origins up the wazoo."

"Demons," Sam said. "It can raise demons, can't it?"

"Seems that way," Bobby said. "My guess is that John or the demon isn't trying to break open a seal—not yet anyway. He's trying to gather forces to help break one open. These seals must be some powerful stuff. He can't do it without some backup."

"Raising demons, huh?" Dean asked with grim humor. "Sounds like a hell of a party we're going to be invited to…"

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean and turned back to Bobby. "How can we be sure it's this ritual he's trying to perform?"

"We can't," Bobby said. "But it's my best guess."

"So, let's say he _is_ trying to raise demons," Dean said carefully. "How would he go about doing it? It's got to be harder than the Native American legend says."

"It is," Bobby said, opening other old tomes and pointing to the relevant passages. "Take a look."

Sam picked one up and handed another to Dean so they could both read the passages.

Dean read his section where key points such as using a certain type of herb mix to create a type of smoke that could raise the dead or using the pipe on the night of a full moon jumped out at him.

He glanced at Sam, who looked grim as he read his passage.

"Wow, some seriously detailed mojo," Dean said.

"And dark," Sam added. He grimaced a little. "This is a dangerous ritual."

"Yeah, but that's not all," Bobby grimly countered. He handed them another book. "Give that a look."

Dean glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. "Revelation?"

"The one and only," Bobby said.

"Trying to get back at me for skipping out on Sunday School all those years?" Dean asked.

"Just read," Bobby told him tersely. He pointed to another passage in the book, its cover old and torn.

"A demonic army," Sam breathed. "Most interpretations say that the locusts and the mass destruction--it's all demons, unleashed on earth."

Dean huffed. "An army for the demons. Weren't they enough on their own?"

But it made sense--all of it. It was impossible to confirm this kind of lore without seeing it in action, but it did fit. What had the power to raise the dead? Demons, when they played by the rules. Demons had been making deals for centuries, so maybe the worm pipes were a manifestation of that power.

They'd heard of crazier things--a demon army almost made a twisted kind of sense considering their father's desperate measures mentality of late. To have possession of it might make a demon able to raise souls at will, without the trade of another. Even more unthinkable, to be able to break out the nastiest demons ever to walk the earth, even those who lay buried under ancient spells made to keep them contained.

It would be chaos and destruction--of the worst kind. Which was exactly what a demon, primed and tortured in Hell for one hundred years, would want.

"Are you sure that's what he's doing?" Sam asked Bobby.

Bobby shrugged a little. "At this point, I don't know."

And that was the thing—they didn't know. Dean couldn't be sure of anything anymore. He believed in what he could see—always had—but then, he'd seen the video. And then he'd heard his father's voice. He wanted to believe that it was his voice. That it was Dad protecting them. Always protecting him and Sam.

On the other hand, he also saw his father murder an innocent man.

And he'd heard his father's words. Confessing to the killing, telling him about Hell--but still, protecting them. Always protecting them.

"But can we afford to do nothing and be wrong?" Sam asked, looking at him and Bobby.

Dean knew that, for Sam, sitting on the sidelines would kill him, but it was a question of duty and loyalty. Sam would sit on the sidelines for Dean, if he asked him to.

It was up to Dean to see where his own duty and loyalty lay. With the father who went to Hell for him or with the greater good he knew he had to protect.

Dean didn't have to pick. Not now. He could go, find their father, and talk some sense into him. His father wasn't gone yet--Dean just knew it. He had to find him and help him. And if that meant stopping another seal from breaking, even better.

Resolved, Dean asked, "So do we know where this is all going down?"

"John's been leaving a trail of lightning storms behind him," Bobby explained. "It was what led the hunter to his trail in Wyoming. And recently, it's localized someplace else, and been joined by other demonic omens. Some cattle mutilations. Other unexplained things."

"Sounds like the right trail," Sam said.

Dean pressed his lips together for a moment, then made a point of flexing his jaw. "Where?"

Bobby sifted through his things, producing a well-marked map. The signs were plotted on it, and a town was circled. "Just outside of White Sulfur Springs, Montana."

Sam looked grim but determined.

Dean just nodded. "If we leave now, we can be there by morning."

Sam looked like he wanted to protest leaving so soon, but Dean just glared at him, daring him to object. There was time for planning, there was time for caution: this wasn't it.

Sam scowled, his face set in a dark approximation of a bitchface, but kept quiet.

Dean was glad. They had work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

There was always something quiet about driving at night.

They often stuck to the county roads, long stretches of two-lane highway that wound through the countryside of America. The Impala's lone pair of headlights cut through the darkness with a starkness that did nothing to ease the encompassing nature of it all.

Sometimes, it felt peaceful. Sam had to admit there were times when driving through the stillness was like a waking dream, a venture into soft nothingness to give him rest. He could sleep with his eyes open and trust that when the daylight broke, he would be where he needed to be.

But other times--

Other times, it was like an endless nightmare. The darkness had no beginning, no end. It just was, vast and empty and growing deeper with every mile they pushed ahead, as though they could get lost in it.

Tonight, it wasn't quite either. It was something worse.

The infinite blackness was just a guise this time. A short-term reprieve, both a heaven and a hell, before they faced the conflict on the other end.

Their father.

Sam had faced many conflicts with his father over his lifetime. From fights over the purpose of hunting to arguments regarding Sam's school commitments, he had braced for the worst and fought his way through them all.

He could even remember the cold bleakness of their drive to save Dad in Missouri. The barren nothingness of the drive away from the hospital where their father died.

Nothing compared to this.

Facing Dad now--what he had become--Sam wasn't sure he was ready for this. It was enough dealing with what he'd been through, but facing the idea that Dad could be a demon? More than that, that he might be trying to bring about the apocalypse?

_Family secrets you don't want to deal with for six hundred, Alex._

Nervous, Sam glanced at his brother. Dean was sitting rigidly in the driver's seat, fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel.

As hard as this was on Sam, it was clearly harder on Dean. His older brother hadn't said a word this entire trip. He hadn't turned on the radio, hadn't shoved in a cassette tape--he hadn't even _looked_ at Sam.

Which didn't do anything for Sam's nerves. Though he would never admit it, his brother's cool and calm disposition was something he counted on. It made him feel better, even when he knew it was a lie.

The fact that Dean wasn't even taking the time to put on a facade was an indication of just how serious this was.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, chewing absently at the inside of his lip. To make matters that much worse, they didn't even have a plan that was any good. Their mission was part rescue, part interception, and entirely flimsy.

It wasn't any good and it wasn't right. Dean knew better than this. He knew better than to charge in, half-cocked. He knew better than to go in without appropriate backup. He knew better than to plan a hunt without the proper contingencies in place.

Except this was Dad.

Sam flattened his mouth grimly. This was Dad, and it was always the same old story when it came to Dad and Dean.

He sighed. He had resented their closeness for years. Though he had spent his teen years pretending like it didn't matter, his father's trust and approval of Dean was always a bitter pill to swallow.

Sam had always wanted to prove himself somehow, to make his father proud.

It had ended too little, too late.

But maybe not this time.

Quelling his frustration, Sam looked at his notes again. Sifting through them, he pulled out the map, double-checking their destination. He and Bobby had plotted the demonic omens around White Sulfur Springs and had come up with a fairly centralized location. Though there had been a number of viable buildings, they'd all agreed on an old warehouse in the industrialized edge of town. It was a bit of a long shot, but it fit the general location they had pinpointed and it had the right MO. Secluded, abandoned, large--a perfect place for a demonic army. A soldier as capable as their father would know that.

It made sense. It was the best logic they could employ among the three of them. But there was still something about this Sam didn't like. Something fundamentally _wrong_.

Why had Dad called them? He wanted to trust that Dean had told him everything about the phone call, but none of it made any sense. Why would Dad warn them to stay away? If he was really concerned about their safety, why wouldn't he take more care not to attract attention?

No, Sam had seen his father's eyes back in Wyoming. The demonic omens were impossible to deny. Their father wasn't up to any good in White Sulfur Springs. Even if the plan wasn't to raise a demonic army, Sam didn't doubt that it was something evil.

Which again, begged the question: why call? Was their father afraid that they'd be able to stop him? Or was he simply afraid they'd try?

Was Dad even really still _Dad_? How could he be? It didn't make any sense. They'd _burned_ him. Sam had helped build the pyre. He'd watched the body go up in flames until there was nothing left but ash. John Winchester was dead, and he had no body left to offer.

Which meant he was something else. A shapeshifter of sorts was possible, but not likely. It knew too much.

Besides, it turned out that coming back from the dead wasn't so impossible after all.

Like father, like son.

Which was just one more reason to worry. Sam knew what it was like to have something inside that he couldn't control. He knew what it was like to have the darkness of death taint him. If his father had really been to Hell, then there was no telling what had happened to him--what changes had been wrought.

Swallowing hard, Sam licked his lips, trying to square his shoulders a bit. "Are you really sure about this?" he asked finally, his voice cutting into the darkness.

Dean glanced at him briefly, his eyes dark. Looking back at the road, he nodded curtly. "What's not to be sure about?" he asked, his voice clipped.

It wasn't the encouraging answer Sam had been hoping for. "It's just...something doesn't feel off about this to you?"

At that, Dean gave a bark of laughter. "A lot feels off about this," he said sharply. "Like the fact that we're tracking Dad by demonic omens. Or maybe the fact that you're looking at _exorcisms_ to use on him."

Sam felt his cheeks flush. He looked down at the page of Latin partially hidden behind his map. He hadn't told Dean about the exorcism--it had been his worst case scenario. His own version of a backup plan, even if Dean didn't want to talk about it.

It wasn't easy to admit, but it was better to get it out in the open. "We can't be sure," Sam said softly.

"He's not possessed," Dean said, as a matter of fact. "We burned his body--so whatever happened, something brought him back from nothing."

"What if it's something else?"

"Shapeshifters need their victims to be alive," Dean said.

"There are other--"

Dean gave Sam a hard look. "You know it's him just as well as I do."

To that, Sam had no argument. "So what about the black eyes?"

It was Dean's turned to be silent. He shrugged.

Sam sighed. His brother was going to be stubborn about this--he always was when it came to their father. If Sam didn't proceed carefully, his brother would explode at him, which wasn't something any of them needed. "None of it explains why he would call you."

"He wanted to warn us," Dean said simply, eyes still on the road.

"But it doesn't make any sense," Sam persisted. They were all stubborn in the end.

"It makes perfect sense," Dean said. "He doesn't want us to get hurt."

Sam couldn't help but smile with twisted amusement. "Yeah, because raising a demon army sounds like a surefire way to make certain we're safe."

Dean's face hardened even more. "We don't know he's doing that."

"But then why would he want us to be safe?"

Dean's face twisted, his lips turned in a frustrated sneer. "I don't know, Sam." Exasperated sarcasm colored his brother's voice. "But I do know Dad. I know he's spent his entire life fighting for what was right--looking out for _us_. Even when he died. He went to _Hell_ to keep us safe, so I sort of have to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one."

The argument was too familiar. The same one Dean had been giving him since he was eight years old. "You really think it's still a good idea to have blind faith in the man?"

Dean glared at him, eyes cold and deadly. "After everything, you're still not ready to be the good son?" he asked. Then he shook his head, an expression of disgust on his features. "You were too little, too late the first time around, Sammy. You really want to risk it again?"

That thought had gone through Sam's head more than once. But hearing it out loud--out of his brother's mouth with such malice--was another thing entirely. Because Sam could remember it like it was yesterday--the cold shock of walking in and finding his father dead on the ground. Being there and not being able to do _anything_. Not able to save him, not able to comfort him, not able to tell him that he was sorry, that he loved him.

And finding out that it had been a deal that had taken Dad's life? Made it worse. Not just because John should have known better, not even because he had bartered with the very thing that had taken their mother--but because he'd known what was coming and had asked Sam to leave. He'd sent Sam on a coffee run knowing they'd never see each other again.

Dad hadn't trusted him. It was the confirmation of all Sam's doubts and worst fears. He was the lesser son, the one that wasn't good enough, the pathetic little kid who couldn't even be a part of his own destiny.

The guilt and shame made Sam shrink in on himself and he looked down at the papers on his lap.

It didn't surprise Sam that it was Dean their father called. Dad had believed that Sam might need to be put down like a rabid dog, and apparently some things never changed, no matter which side of the afterlife they might be on.

Silence stretched between them as Sam's spirits plunged deeper into the darkness.

In the seat across from him, Dean cleared his throat. When Sam looked up, Dean met his eye, and there was a shadow of an apology there.

"So," Dean asked, clearing his throat a little. "Do you, uh, know what our turnoff is?"

It was a meager peace offering at best, but Sam recognized it for what it was.Feeling numb, he looked blankly back at the map and tried to find an answer as they forged ahead into the night.

-o-

The morning sun was glaringly bright, coming at them low above the horizon. The sharp rays did nothing to ease the coolness in the air, which seemed to be tinged with mountain frost.

Dean wasn't sure if it was the weather or the situation, though. He felt numb inside and even the hair on his arms was on edge beneath the warm cover of his leather jacket.

Hell, it could have been one hundred degrees and Dean's reaction would have been the same. It wasn't because of the elevation, it wasn't because of the early hour: it was because of their father.

Dad was _here_--doing what, Dean couldn't be sure (_refused_ to be sure), but doing something all the same.

Squinting over the landscape, Dean couldn't get over how normal it seemed. The area was industrialized, just like Sam had said, but, from the looks of it, it was way past its prime. The buildings nearby were fenced off but mostly ramshackle, and any one of them seemed like possible candidates for whatever demonic activity was going down in the area. The one Sam and Bobby had marked as their primary target wasn't much better, and Dean understood quickly why they had narrowed their search to this one.

It was made of brick, with two rows of windows across its front. It was sizable--easily the largest one in the area--but over half the windows were blown out or cracked. The yard was in shambles, littered with stones of all sizes, jumbled bits of trash and scraggly, wayward weeds.

Dean had parked just outside--far enough away to hide their approach but close enough to scope it out. The chain link fence surrounding the place still had barbed wire around the top, but the gate itself swung drunkenly on its hinges.

"So, what do you think?" Sam asked, straining his neck to give it a look. "You think we have a winner?"

Dean gave the rest of the buildings on the street a glance. Some were too small, others were still too well protected. This one was perfect in terms of size and security. There was no doubt in his mind: this would be the one his father would pick.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I think you're right. This is it."

For once, Sam didn't contradict him. Instead, he opened his door, closing it carefully behind him.

By the time Dean followed suit, Sam had the trunk open and was rummaging through it. Preparing.

Which made sense. They had to prep for any hunt, and this was no exception. But Dean didn't even know where to begin. How did he prepare for _this_? The most twisted family reunion in the world?

Sam, however, seemed to be taking everything and the kitchen sink. He packed his bag with candles, chalk, and holy water, even strapping a blade to his belt. It fit with Sam's anal retentive ways, but when Sam reached for a pistol, it crossed a line from preparedness to _what the hell_.

Dean scoffed, pinning his younger brother with condemning eyes.

Pausing, Sam looked up. "What?"

"A gun? Really, Sammy?"

Sam looked back at him, a little blank. "Why not?"

"Dude, we're going after _Dad_," Dean reminded him. "Our endgame is _not _to kill him."

A muscle twitched in Sam's jaw, almost imperceptibly, but Dean saw it nonetheless and recognized it for what it was: defiance. Raising his head a little, Sam squared himself against Dean. "We don't know what we're up against."

Dean didn't let his gaze waver, even though there was truth to that. The whole thing could be a trap and it could be a trap from some _thing _that wasn't their dad. But that didn't change the fact that it could be Dad, and there was no way in hell Dean was letting his little brother charge in there with guns blazing.

After all, he'd seen the throw downs between his brother and his father before, and they had never been pretty. And with Sam's newly ramped up powers? Dean just didn't want to know.

Which was why in this case, less was more. Face puckered in annoyance, Dean reached purposefully in front of his brother, pulling out the shotgun filled with rock salt. "If he's demonic, regular bullets won't do squat anyway."

Sam remained rigid, clearly unconvinced. Which was just like Sam. The kid always wanted answers, but if the answers weren't the ones he wanted, he defied them anyway.

To prove the point, Dean watched as his brother pocketed the pistol anyway, his eyes never leaving Dean's. Then, Sam reached for the shotgun, taking it up in his right hand. "We need to be prepared for anything," Sam said, his voice terse. "We don't know what he is."

Sam focused on the negative--always one of his worst flaws. Where Sam saw years without a home address, Dean could see years of freedom. Where Sam saw classes he could never finish, Dean saw homework he never had to do. It had been more than a little frustrating during their teen years--with Sam as a constant downer to Dean's meager attempts to make something good out of the situation they were in. Dean wanted to make lemonade. Sam just wanted to suck lemons.

No wonder his bitchface was so damn good.

The stakes had been high enough back then, but now? As bad as the break for Stanford had been, it would be nothing compared to this.

After all, Sam was preparing to waste _Dad_ if necessary.

Dean was going to make sure that didn't happen. Not on his watch. He may have screwed up and let Sam go to Stanford. He may have missed the mark in Missouri when their father was possessed. But he would not--could not--screw it all up now.

"Yeah," Dean said, pulling out some holy water for himself. He forced himself to stay calm. "But we do know we don't want to kill him."

Dean's conciliatory tone must have had its effect, because Sam nodded a little. It was clear the kid still wasn't convinced, but it was something at least. Sam was listening, which meant he would think before he acted. That would always work in Dean's favor. It had been enough to stop Sam from shooting Dad once; Dean had to hope he could do it again. For all their sakes.

Sam squinted at the building, using one hand to block the morning sun from his eyes. "So how do we know we're not too late?" he asked.

Dean followed his brother's gaze and looked at the dormant building. Despite the fact it was clearly rundown, it was still intact. Though Dean didn't know the ritual that would be used, he was pretty sure it would make more of a mess than that. "Do you see a demonic army?" he asked, his tone edged with sarcasm.

Sam smirked a little. "No."

Dean shrugged. "Then I'm thinking we're probably not too late," he said. "What do you think, college boy?"

Sam returned his shrug half-heartedly. "We probably would have seen other signs, too," he agreed. "That much power out of Hell, it's going to affect the weather and the landscape. Bobby said the night Jake opened the Hell Gate, there were reports of lightning storms across the entire state."

"Which means we've still got time," Dean concluded. "Whatever's going down, it hasn't happened yet."

"No, but it's probably going to happen soon," Sam said.

"Which means we'd better hurry."

Sam gestured with one hand toward the building. "After you."

Sam's voice was partially mocking, but Dean could see the seriousness of it, too. Sam was letting him take the lead on this one. Dean knew his brother didn't agree with him completely, but Sam trusted him. He trusted him to get this one right.

Dean couldn't let him down. Not this time. Even if was the last thing he did.

-o-

Sam had been following orders all his life. That didn't mean it got any easier.

Especially when he knew the orders weren't always right.

Not that Dean was wrong. But Dean was focused on the wrong thing.

It wasn't that Sam wanted to go in and pick a fight with Dad. It wasn't that Sam wanted to kill him. But Sam had fought fair before--and lost. He had lost when he got kicked out for college. He had lost in Missouri when he didn't killed Azazel when he'd had the chance. And he had lost big in Cold Oak with a knife in the back.

Playing fair was in Sam's nature, but he'd learned the hard way that it didn't usually get him very far. While that was okay for him, it wasn't okay for those around him.

It had cost Jess. It had almost cost Dean. It had cost his father once.

There was a bigger picture. Sam couldn't be sure what was going on with Dad, but he did know what was going on with Dean. Sam's first goal had to be to protect his brother--even at the expense of whatever it was their father was now.

Sam watched his brother's back as he snaked through the open gate. Dean ran lightly, and Sam stepped carefully in his wake. It was a tricky business--trying to protect his brother physically and emotionally. Which was why he was following Dean's lead on this one--but why the gun in his pocket was still fully loaded.

Moving across the yard, Sam felt his stomach turn. Then, he realized why.

The air was thick with a foul smell. Mineral and putrid.

Sulfur.

With a name like White Sulfur Springs, it might not have been a surprise. But Sam knew the sulfur in the area wasn't naturally occurring. It was too strong--too distinct. And the fact was, they weren't that lucky.

Whatever was here--it was big.

When they got to the building, Dean hedged close to it, and Sam fell in line behind him. Glancing at him, Dean made eye contact, silently communicating that Sam needed to stay close.

Sam nodded, nervously readjusting his grip on the shotgun. His palms felt sweaty and his face was flushed with anxiety, but his entire body felt as cold as ice.

Dean moved low, pausing at the first window they came up to. He went to the far side of it, peeking his head around to get a look inside. Sam sidled up on the other side of the window, craning his neck carefully to catch his own glimpse of the interior.

At first, it was hard to make out. Despite the morning rays, the inside was dark. Sam could make out a few rows of tires, one partially tipped. On one wall there was an array of shelves shoved to the side, some fallen.

There appeared to be some offices in the back, but they were blackened, too dark to make out.

Sam's eyes shifted across the room, careful and discerning, and then he saw it.

It was partially obscured by another scattered arrangement of shelves, but the flickering light of candles was unmistakable.

He looked at his brother, catching Dean's eyes and nodding toward the candles. Dean had to shift positions to see, but when he did, his face hardened grimly.

From their location, it was impossible to see anything else. Dean met his gaze again, nodding them forward.

Heart pounding, Sam followed suit, keeping as low as he could. There was something here, and while Sam had suspected as much all along, it was unnerving to have it confirmed. Especially when that something could be Dad.

They turned the corner; there were fewer windows on this side. There was, however, a series of double doors. Though two were still bolted shut, the third was partially ajar.

Tense, they both slowed, carefully inching closer carefully. As sure as this was their best bet to gauge what was going on, it would also make them vulnerable.

But it was a risk they had to take.

Pressed along the wall just next to the door, Dean gave Sam a knowing look. With a deep breath, Sam nodded, and they moved into position.

It wasn't easy to see, and they were so close together that Sam could hear Dean's stifled breathing. But the circle of candles was much closer now, and Sam was able to pick out more details than before.

There were more than candles. In the center of the circle was an altar. It was lined with candles itself, and carefully arranged with a number of other things. They were still too far away to make out the details, but squinting, Sam could see the worm pipe.

Dean tapped him lightly on the arm, and Sam knew it was time to move. They'd found what they were looking for. Whatever doubts either of them may have had, there was no denying it now.

Sam's nerves sprang to life with new vigor, and his stomach twisted again. He was sure this was the place, but he still had no answer to who would be waiting for them when they finally went inside.

-o-

Dean had never been one for the details.

Sure, he paid attention to them as needed, but they'd never been what he enjoyed most. Things like research and prep work--they were the _boring _part of hunting. Those kinds of tasks were slow and monotonous, and nothing like the hunt itself. He understood their importance, of course, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

In comparison, though, no hunt had ever been as painfully slow and interminable as this time. The lines of salt were familiar enough, but the distance around the building was long. Both he and Sam were adept at making devil's traps, but it had still taken nearly an hour to inscribe the markings on all the entrances. Sam had insisted on consecrating the yard, in the hope that even if all other barriers were breached, they would have one last ditch effort to stop anything demonic from getting too far.

And even though Dean would never admit it, he knew these measures were meager at best. The fact was, they were horrifically unprepared for this hunt. The plan was makeshift at best. Trying to trap whatever was in there was a good idea, but they had no way of knowing for sure if anyone was home at all. At least with the strong scent of sulfur in the air, there was a good bet that the sigils they'd chosen would do the trick.

All the entrances were marked and they'd inscribed what they could on the walls, just in case. Of course, if the whole roof got blown off, it'd be a moot point, but hey, no one could accuse them of not putting in some effort.

Though anyone could point out the flaws with the plan that far exceeded that effort. After all, what if there was more than one demon? What if Dad had backup that decided to stop by after the fact? What if there was no one in there at all, just some candles? Dean wanted to believe the best about John, but at this point, Sam's suspicions had some weight. Dean wouldn't concede yet, but the gnawing sense of doubt in the back of his mind could not be squelched.

More than that, what if there _was _someone in there--someone besides their dad? When it came to inside the warehouse, they were virtually defenseless. Holy water would do some good and salt would repel lower level demons, but against something bigger?

Hell, what if old Yellow Eyes had decided to show up? Even their holy water would be useless then. They could be walking into the biggest trap in the world and all they'd done was create a closed buffet for whatever it was to choose from.

But it didn't matter. These protective measures were just the backup plan, and Dean _had _to remember that.

The real goal--the only goal--was to find Dad and take him home--together.

Feeling tense, Dean rocked back on his heels and looked down at the symbol on the ground. Spray paint was rudimentary, but it would do. They had no way of hiding the markings, but if they were taking things outside, then being discreet was the least of their problems.

Sighing, he pushed to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked down the side of the building and saw Sam finishing his own devil's trap in front of the last remaining door. They were lucky--there hadn't been many exits, but that made sense. If Dad was planning on raising some kind of demon army, he wouldn't want anyone to just wander in.

But what would their father say about this plan?

Dean almost had to smile.

John would chew his ass out for this, and not just because he was disobeying a direct order. But because Dean was being reckless and stupid--

_Never hunt without resting first._

Except for when the risks were too great not to.

_Measure twice, cut once. Over plan, and finish all right._

Except for when there just wasn't any other choice.

_Trust your gut, but back it up with research_.

Except for when your gut was _right_.

For all the rules and lessons and orders, John had taught one very important thing: always do what was best for the family. It was a balancing act, a tentative tightrope between sacrificing too much and giving up what didn't really matter. That was what the hunt was about. They were already in jeopardy, even when living a quiet, simple, family life. What was worse--the risk of being unprepared or the risk of going out with guns blazing?

Winchesters didn't always win, but they always went out fighting. If destiny wasn't theirs to change, then it sure as hell was theirs to fight.

Dean looked back at the warehouse, feeling something solidify inside of him. He remembered Dad's voice on the phone. He remembered the cold words.

He knew his father. Dean had spent a lifetime following that man's orders, figuring out when to hold position and when to fall back. No one knew John Winchester like Dean did. He knew when his father was too tired to be argued with. He knew when his father was too hurt to back down. He knew when his father needed support and when he needed to be questioned.

Dean knew the difference between hard and fast orders and reverse psychology. It was inevitable. After a lifetime of being the best damn soldier he could be, Dean's instincts were honed.

The obvious demonic omens, the ominous endgame, the cryptic phone call--they were all decoys. His dad set this up so everything said _stay away_, but that wasn't what he really wanted.

No, John wanted them here. Dean was sure of it.

What he wanted them here for--Dean was not so sure about that.

He had to believe, though. No matter what Sam said, Dean had to believe Dad would never harm them. Even when he was possessed by Azazel, John had been strong enough to fight back for a moment, just long enough to save Dean's life.

Dean let his eyes linger on his brother once again. Sam was nervous, that much was clear. But Sam was trusting him on this--despite everything. It was that trust Dean couldn't betray.

And he wouldn't. Dean could fix this. He could make them a family again--once and for always. He was always the one to pull them together, even when Sam and Dad didn't know they wanted it. He'd failed when Sam left for college. He'd failed in Missouri when their father had been possessed.

He would _not _fail this time.

_If you're going to do something, you do it all the way. Commit to it. No turning back. Remember, Dean, determination is half the battle_.

Dean pulled himself together. He was halfway to victory already.

Sam stood, eyeing his work before glancing Dean's way. When their eyes locked, Dean could see Sam's doubts there.

Stuffing his spray paint into his pack, Dean moved toward his brother. With a nod, they pulled away from the building, retreating toward the end of the yard behind an abandoned dumpster.

"So you ready to do this?" Dean asked.

Sam looked back nervously, peeking out from behind the dumpster. "If there's something demonic in there, it's going to have to work pretty hard to get out," his brother said.

"Do you want to go in together or at separate entrances?" Dean asked.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Are you sure you want to go in?"

"Well, we didn't come all this way just to sit on our asses."

Sam made a face. "I meant maybe we should lure whatever is in there out," he said. "Get it in the open so we're not trapped in there with it."

"_It_ could be Dad," Dean reminded him. "We need to show him that we're not here to hurt him."

A flash of incredulity spread across Sam's face. "Dean, we need to be realistic about this," he said.

"What, you want to go in packing?" Dean asked, nodding toward Sam's pocket. "Shoot first and ask questions later and hope that Dad's still alive long enough to get some answers?"

Sam's features hardened. "You know it's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" Dean snapped.

"I just--don't want to put us in more danger than we have to," Sam said, his head dipping down, before tentatively meeting Dean's gaze again.

Sam's mind was in the right place--and so was his heart.

Dean shook his head, his tone softening. "We don't know what's happened to him. If we go in there, guns blazing or with lies and deceit, then he's not going to know he can trust us."

"Dean, you saw him on the security tape," Sam said. "And you heard him in the phone call."

"No," Dean said. "We go in there like men. This is about family, man. _Family_."

Dean watched as the emotions shifted in Sam's eyes. The fear and uncertainty were still there, but so was something else: trust.

Finally, Sam nodded. "Okay," he said. "But we're taking protection."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't plan on hooking up with anyone in there."

"Dean, I'm serious," Sam said.

"Okay, okay," Dean said. He pulled the shotgun from his pack and held it up for Sam's approval. "Happy?"

Sam pursed his lips, picking up his own shotgun. "Let's do this."

Dean didn't have to be told twice. Leaving their packs, Dean led them back toward the warehouse, sliding along the edge until they reached the door that had been ajar. Apart from the devil's trap scrawled on the dirt, it looked much like they had left it.

With one last glance at his brother, Dean pushed the door open slightly. When no reaction came from within, he gave Sam a hard look and went inside.

He pressed against the wall immediately, staying to the shadows. Without looking, he knew that Sam was close behind him.

The inched forward, and Dean kept his eyes wide and wary for any sign of movement.

As they moved ahead, the altar came into view. Illuminated by the candlelight, it was possible to see what was on it. The worm pipe was still in place, but it was joined by other objects--hex bags, some bones, and some things Dean didn't recognize. Some things he didn't _want _to recognize.

It was pretty clear, though, that this was some dark stuff. Darker than Dean wanted to admit to.

Then, there was a noise.

Dean tensed, looking into the stillness of the warehouse. The early morning sunlight brightened the far end, but there was still no sign of life.

Looking back, he met Sam's eyes. Sam's face was white in the shadows, and Dean could see a line of perspiration collecting beneath Sam's bangs.

Sam was more than nervous--he was actually scared.

That fact was enough to erode away at Dean's sense of control. This was a risk--a huge one--and a gamble that he was throwing both of them into without reservations. But his step of blind faith wasn't just for him--it was for Sam, too. The little brother he just got back.

But they were too far in to back out now.

Dean steeled himself, easing away from the wall.

He saw a flash of movement. There, on the other side of the candles.

Behind him, Sam froze.

Then Dean realized why.

Even in the flickering shadows, it was unmistakable.

It was Dad.

Dean swallowed hard against the emotion in his throat and willed himself to stay still.

As a slow grin spread across John's face, Dean realized that their stealth was all for naught.

"Come on out, boys," John said, his voice sending an icy shiver down Dean's spine. "It's about time for a Winchester family reunion."


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

Dean liked to think that seeing was believing. While there certainly was some truth to that--and the Winchesters had seen ghosts and ghouls and vampires to prove the point--Sam knew that there was far more to it than that.

Sometimes believing was instinctual. It was about trusting what was inside of you even in the face of insurmountable evidence.

Which was why, even now--_especially _now--that their father was standing in front of them--living, breathing, _alive_--Sam couldn't believe it.

He'd seen the surveillance footage. He'd seen him in Wyoming. He'd argued with Dean the entire way here and now, faced with the reality of it, Sam's instincts were going haywire. Because this was _wrong_. This was very, very _wrong_.

After years of not being good enough, of being too little, too late, Sam was about to stand face to face with something that looked like his father--but there was more to it than that.

Just what that was, Sam wasn't sure yet. But he had a feeling he didn't want to find out.

In front of him, Dean hadn't moved, frozen so still that, for a fleeting seconds, Sam wondered if he was breathing.

In the glow of the candles, their father's face hardened slightly. Sam shivered as his eyes went black. John's voice dropped to a growl: "That's an order, boys."

It was a tone he recognized: the one that had told him to stop studying and train harder, the one that told him to stop being so selfish and stick with the hunt, the one that always reminded him just how much he had to learn to be like Dean.

The surge of resentment stoked the latent fury in Sam. Whatever this was, it was time to face it face to face, and Sam would be ready this time. He would finally take a page out of his father's book--being prepared meant more than an understanding word and a polite question.

Sometimes, safety was a .45 under his pillow or in his pocket.

Quietly, Sam went for the gun in his pocket, but Dean's hand on his arm made him pause.

His brother met his eyes briefly, and gave Sam a hard and pleading look.

Sam cocked his head in response, silently asking _why not_, but Dean didn't respond.

Before Sam could push for more, Dean was moving.

Worse, Dean was stepping out into the open, right into the light, hands out: unarmed.

Sam swallowed thickly, a curse under his breath. It was a stupid move--reckless and foolhardy and just like Dean. Dean never saw this as a hunt, but as a rescue operation, and his older brother had just given up any advantage they may have had. Not that Sam didn't understand. Because this was their _father_--or a close approximation of him. The chance to ask him questions, to make amends: there was real appeal of that.

But the entire thing--the black eyes, the video footage, the phone call, the fact that they'd _burned his body_--meant this was more than just a family reunion.

Sam had lost too much from a lack of preparation. Jessica, Dad, his own life: he wouldn't make the mistake again. Not now, not ever.

But, tactically speaking, they would no longer have any room to hide. Without weapons out and trained, they were clearly at a disadvantage if things went south.

When_ things went south_, Sam thought grimly.

There was no undoing it now--their leverage had been lost and their vulnerability was cemented.

It was stupid, but Sam had no choice but to follow.

He tightened his fingers on his shotgun, and kept his mind keenly on his pistol. He would follow Dean into this mess, but he wouldn't do so blindly.

Chest feeling tight, Sam stepped forward, leaving the shadows for the flickering haze of the candlelight. His eyes flitted between his father and his brother, settling on Dean's back, waiting to see what his brother's next move would be.

Dean's posture seemed relaxed, his shoulders poised almost in a swagger, but Sam could see the tension beneath it all.

"Hey, Dad," Dean said. "What? No hugs?"

John's eyes narrowed but his face stayed impassive. He inclined his head slightly. "I seem to remember ordering you not to follow me," he said. John's eyes flashed to Sam before settling on Dean again. "I thought you were better at following orders than that. My good little soldier."

The tone alone was enough to make Sam want to shoot--just to see what this _thing _really was. But the words--the taunting and the baiting--made Sam want to shoot for what it was doing to Dean. Playing with his brother's vulnerabilities, exploiting Dean's real weaknesses: it wasn't fair play.

Then again, Sam had to admit, it was within their dad's MO. John Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, would use anything to get what he wanted, even his sons' insecurities and weaknesses. When Sam was scared, their father would remind him that that was why the hunt was important. When Dean was sad, their dad would use it to point out how the hunt could make him strong. It usually wasn't this vindictive, but the idea was the same.

Hell, Dad had made a _lifetime _of screwing with their heads, from the life on the road to the very last words he spoke to either of them. Sending Sam away and laying the worst order possible on Dean had guaranteed to trap them both in the hunt; sometimes, Sam wondered if that had been the point all along.

To Dean's credit, he stayed still and cool. He wasn't ready to shoot like Sam was, but he wasn't taking it at face value either. "Well, seeing as you were _dead_, maybe I got used to calling my own shots."

John eyed them carefully. "I always knew Sammy was one to ignore orders that didn't suit him," he said coolly. "But I expected better from you, Dean."

Dean laughed a little, tight and mirthless. "Yeah, well, we expected better from you, too."

A smirk crossed John's face, cold and cruel in a way that Sam did not recognize. His father had been harsh and ruthless at times, but never so purposefully vicious. Even the harshest orders had been a twisted form of love that Sam could see after the fact.

This? Was nothing close.

"You think I was trying not to get caught?" their father asked.

Sam's emotions flared up again. This was a game. Whoever this was, whatever this was, it was a _game_, and innocent people had already died in the crossfire. He stepped forward, until he was even with Dean, his eyes burning. "We're talking about murder," he said, unable to control the seething tone of his voice.

John seemed to consider this for a moment, but then shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Desperate times, Sammy," he said. "Desperate measures. That's a lesson you ought to have learned by now, don't you think? Or would you like to turn your back on me now and see what happens?"

Sam just shook his head. "We can't let you do this," he said.

John just raised an eyebrow. "And just how do you think you're going to stop it?"

Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the derogatory question--Sam wasn't sure, but it was a response he _knew. _Suddenly, it was like he was eighteen again, just asking for some respect, for an equal say, for _anything_--and Sam was starting to think that this really was his father after all.

Righteous indignation ran deep within him, swelling up almost uncontrollably. "You son of a bitch," he said.

"Come on, Sammy," John taunted. "You've wanted to take a shot since you were thirteen years old. This is as good a time as any. You like to think you're the rebel, so _prove _it."

At that, Sam lunged, his anger overpowering. This was more than his teenage rebellion--this was even more than the last order that sent Sam away and burdened Dean with a dark destiny neither of them could fight. This was about the end of the world.

His forward movement was halted, though, and he was roughly pulled back. Sam felt Dean's arms firmly around him, holding him securely from advancing.

It didn't matter though. Dean could stop him, but there was nothing his brother could do to stop _this_. Their worst case scenario was no longer hypothetical. It was living and breathing across the room from them.

Their father was alive. One way or another, John Winchester had defied the grave. There was no one who could get under Sam's skin, who knew just what buttons to push to make Dean come running after.

This was their father.

And he was turned.

-o-

Sam had been his younger brother so long that sometimes Dean forgot just how _big _he was.

But, standing there in that warehouse in White Sulfur Springs, Montana, Dean was getting a reminder in the hardest way possible. Sam was pulling against him with his full strength, surging ahead, and Dean was the only thing keeping his brother from approaching their father in what was sure to be the smack down of the century.

As Sam wrestled and strained against him, Dean rethought that. The smack down of the _millennium_. Sam had a long fuse, that much was true, but when Sam went off, he really went _off_.

And more than any of that, Dean knew that Sam wasn't just going to throw punches.

No, his _ask questions first, then again, then clarify before shooting _little brother was going for his gun.

Nothing like a little patricide to make the world go 'round.

Not that the SOB didn't have it coming--Dad was many things, but an innocent victim of Sammy's wrath was not one of them.

Of course, Dean had been here before. The setting was different and they'd all been through more than they wanted to admit to, but the idea was the same. John issued the order, Sam fought against it, and Dean was stuck in the middle, trying to keep things from completely falling apart.

He had gotten frustrated by it as a teenager.

Now, it was just too much. From losing both of them, to getting them both back again, to _this_--Dean wasn't sure how much more he could take. How many last orders was he expected to follow? How many painful confessions would he have to endure? When would it ever just be simple and good like he wanted it to be?

A little tension he would understand. After all, there were still a lot of questions to be answered and a lot of issues to be resolved. Bumping chests was one thing; throwing fists was another. But going for a gun?

Just was not going to happen.

This whole thing was screwed to hell but Dean would fix it. He had to.

He tightened his grip on his brother, yanking hard to pull Sam behind him again. "Sam," he hissed. "Stop it!"

Sam struggled against him again, thrashing for a moment.

Dean adjusted his grip, pressing Sam's arms down firmly against his sides. "Don't make me hit you," he said under his breath. "You're not helping this."

At that, Sam stilled. Dean met the kid's eyes for a long moment, hoping to communicate to his brother to stand down. Sam wouldn't take orders for their old man, but sometimes--just sometimes, he would do it for Dean.

Sam seemed to hesitate, the fire in his eyes going strong. "He's turned, Dean," Sam said, his voice taut with anger and pain. "He's not our dad anymore."

Except it _was_ Dad. From the orders to the way he could piss Sam off just by blinking, this was John Winchester through and through. Screwed up, mixed up, and lost, which was why John needed them to keep it together, now more than ever. "Remember the plan," he said, his voice low and rough. He pinned Sam with his eyes. "Remember our _priorities_."

Sam wanted to protest, that much was clear, but Sam relented. His younger brother cast a wary glance at their father before retreating once again.

It was the most trust Dean could ask for, and he knew he couldn't take that lightly. Dean had one shot here, and he knew it. But one would be all he needed.

With Sam momentarily squared away, he edged forward, keeping Sam a safe distance behind him.

Clearing his throat, he opened his arms again. "Nobody has to prove anything," he said easily. "Like you said, we're just here for a little family reunion."

John gave them a mockingly quizzical air. "You typically come packing to greet the relatives?"he asked.

"Better than tools of mass destruction," Sam snapped from behind Dean.

Dean held his hand up to silence his brother. "We just want to talk to you," he said.

"Sam was supposed to be the talker between the two of you," John said. He shook his head a little. "So much has changed. I had counted on you to hold down the fort while I was gone, not let it get overrun."

Dean felt his own chest tighten. "I'm not the only one who's changed," Dean said.

John gave a sympathetic smile. "Time in Hell will do that to a guy."

"So are you--a demon?" Sam hedged.

John raised his eyebrows. "How would a demon possess the body of a man you burned?"

"You tell us," Sam said.

With a small chuckle, John licked his lips. "Let's just say I made some friends in especially _low _places. What you see here is not quite demon and not quite human."

"So you _have_ changed," Dean said, swallowing back his anxiety by sheer willpower alone.

"Oh, Dean," their father replied far too casually. "I haven't changed near as much as you think."

"Really?" Dean asked. "Then what's with the candles? The altar? We're talking about some dark stuff, Dad. The stuff we're not supposed to mess with."

"The old rules made us weak."

Dean swallowed hard. "And what do you think a demon army is going to do when you raise it?" he asked. "It'll destroy everything you spent your life trying to protect."

"I only wanted to protect one thing," John explained slowly. "Family."

Dean's heart ached at that. It was true. For all Dean's talk of the family business, for Dad, everything had come back to family. It was Mary's death that had set them on this course, and the idea of keeping the family safe had kept it going, hunt after hunt, year after year. It was why hunting had mattered, why it had been so hard to watch Sam walk away: because this started with family. It ended with family.

"So why this?" Dean asked, motioning to the altar and candles. "Why steal the pipe?"

John shrugged, sauntering toward the altar. He picked up the pipe from its place of prominence, looking it over in his hands. He met Dean's eyes again. "This old thing?" he asked. Then, he tossed it to Dean.

Surprised, Dean barely had time to catch it. He felt Sam tense behind him, ready to spring at the slightest indication.

But there was nothing to respond to. The pipe was in Dean's hand--real and rough. Dean looked back at his father in disbelief.

His father's smile was cold. "You can have it," he said. "It doesn't mean anything to me."

Dean's mind churned, desperately trying to put the pieces together. "Then why did you steal it?"

John gave a small shrug. "I have a thing for artifacts," he said. "You never know when you'll need a little leverage."

It still didn't parse. "So, what?" Dean asked. "The pipe was just a decoy?"

"Decoy, red herring, you name it, that's all there is to it," John continued.

"A decoy for what?" Dean asked.

"What about the army?" Sam pressed.

Then, Dean got it. The cold knowledge washed over him with a certainty he couldn't deny. Their father never intended on raising an army. The pipe was a decoy for _them_. Just a means to get them _here_.

He shook his head. "You son of a bitch," he said. "You set us up. You never intended on raising an army at all, did you? You just wanted to see if we'd come after you."

John's face brightened with something akin to pride. "I always knew people were wrong when they said Sammy was the smart one," he said. "Brains are more than books, and you always could read people better than Sam could. All your straight A's, Sammy, and you never could see the things that were right in front of your face."

The taunts fell on deaf ears. "So you aren't trying to start the apocalypse?" Sam asked. Dean couldn't quite place the emotion in Sam's voice--confusion and concern and hope all laced with a deep fear.

The bemused expression on John's face was more than a little unsettling. "I don't have to _try _to start anything," he said. "The seals you're chasing? They aren't tasks to be performed and checked off. They're signs. Markers. A countdown."

"A countdown?" Dean asked. "Like some freaky-ass end of the world Advent?"

"That God himself put in place," John confirmed with a morbid satisfaction. His eyes were alive with it. "The seals can't be stopped, no matter what."

Sam was dumbstruck next to him, and Dean couldn't muster up much either. "So what?" he asked. "What's with all this? What angle are you after?"

John's expression loosened. "I have my reasons," he said with an air of indifference.

Sam snorted. "Your reasons?" he asked.

John's eyes shifted to Sam. "Always have, always will," he said. "You just have to be willing to listen."

"Yeah, well, we're here, aren't we?" Dean interjected forcefully. "So, please. Enlighten us."

With a sigh, John rolled his eyes. "This is about survival, Dean," he said shortly. "Just like it has been since the night your mother burned alive on the ceiling. The apocalypse _is _coming, no matter what you do. What better way to guarantee a spot on the other side than keeping up with it?"

There was a certain logic to that. Winchesters survived--it was part of what defined them. No one could survive a life as a hunter without a tried and true sense of fight or flight, and Dean was smart enough to acknowledge it.

But this--was a whole new level of wrong. The twisted logic of it--so John Winchester but with a dark bent.

There were implications of that Dean didn't even want to consider.

Instead, he swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay in control. Sam was wavering beside him, and Dean knew his time was short. He had one last shot at this--one last hope--and he couldn't blow it.

His father was still in there. It was in his mannerisms, his words, his tone. He was there--just _different_. But Dean just had to coax it out.

So it was time to pull out the big guns. Dean would hit below the belt if he had to--always had and always would, no apologies.

Steeling himself, he raised his chin. "So that's why you've partnered with the demon?" he asked.

John hesitated.

"The yellow-eyed bastard who started this?" Dean asked.

The dig was well calculated, and John stiffened in response.

Dean persisted. "The one who killed your _wife_?"

Their father's nostrils flared. "It's not like that."

"Oh, really?" Dean asked. "So he didn't kill her?"

John shook his head. "There are things you don't understand."

"Yeah, like how you turned into a murderer," Sam shot at him.

It was the wrong thing to say, but Dean couldn't take it back. He put his hand out in front of Sam, signaling his brother to stand down. The younger brother stood his ground but didn't advance.

The outburst was enough, though, to send John from the defensive to the offensive, just like that. Head lowered ominously, John pinned them with his eyes, which dissolved into inky blackness while they watched. "Remember who you're talking to, _Sammy_," he said. "Or do you need a long overdue lesson in respect?"

Whether or not that was true, Dean knew that John--or this John, anyway--was not the one to instill such a lesson in his kid brother. Because if Sam wouldn't listen to their father when he was a teenager, there was no way in hell the kid was going to listen to some demonic version.

John may have changed, but Sam was the same little brother he always was. Sam could take so much, but when he was backed into a corner, he didn't cower. No, Sam always came out swinging--usually blindly and, too often, stupidly.

Dean had only a split second to reach for his brother to stop his forward movement, but he was too late. Sam was too fast and too set on his destination, and it was like a train wreck that Dean was helpless to stop.

Dean's cry of protest was cut short, though, when Sam jerked to a sudden halt.

A split second passed and Dean's heart thudded as Sam was pulled backwards and off his feet, dangling in mid-air, just far enough off the ground so his feet couldn't find purchase. Sam's eyes went wide, shocked and pained, as his fingers grappled frantically at his throat. Sam struggled harder, with a strangled wheeze that got cut off altogether.

Rushing to Sam's side, Dean's hand looked for something to do--some pressure to relieve. But there was nothing around Sam's neck--no cord, no obstruction, no sign of anything that was causing the reaction.

Sam bucked, gurgling a little, as his eyes settled with a growing panic on Dean's.

Just like that, Dean was in Cold Oak again, watching Sam fall to his knees in the cold South Dakota mud. The feeling of futility was the same--the need to act with no recourse to do so has haunted him ever since, and it pulsed through him with a renewed intensity.

Desperate, he turned to his father, who was standing erect, hand outstretched before him, fingers squeezing tightly into a fist.

Dean knew what it meant. He understood what he was seeing. He knew it better than he knew anything else--but he didn't want to admit it. Almost couldn't.

His father was killing his brother.

"No," he whispered, his eyes going back to Sam again. His kid brother was writhing now, like a fish on a hook. Dean shook his head, saying it louder this time: "No."

John didn't respond, though, his focus singular and determined.

"Dad, _no_," Dean pleads, louder still. "You have to stop. You're killing him. You're _killing him_."

But John's eyes narrowed, his wrist rising slightly and his fingers clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

Frantic, Dean turned back to Sam. Sam's struggles were weakening, fingers clawing uselessly at bonds that weren't there and his feet swinging limply off the ground.

This wasn't Cold Oak, Dean remember suddenly. He wasn't helpless. There was still an out. It was an option he'd taken off the table, but it had to be there now. It had to be--for Sam's sake.

It was the question he'd asked himself back in Missouri when he'd first pulled the trigger to save Sam's life. How far would he go. How much would he sacrifice.

He understood, now, Sam's hesitation in the cabin. Why he'd almost shot their father.

The things that they'd do for each other.

How far they would go. What lines they would cross.

For Sam. Only for Sam.

He lunged toward his brother, grappling for the gun in Sam's pocket. The barrel was skin-warm and easy in his hand and the safety slid off as though it was never meant to be on.

This was a line Dean never thought he'd have to cross. One he didn't want to.

But he would.

He _would_.

He raised the gun, aiming at his father, training it on the heart. "Dad, stop," he said, and his voice cracked.

John's expression remained hard and focused.

"Dad, _please_," Dean said, and he was begging now. Begging for another way out. Begging for anything except this.

Sam was barely moving and Dean remembered his one shot. One shot. _One shot_.

"Dad!" he screamed. "_Stop_!"

His finger tingled, the trigger flinched--

And Sam fell limply to the ground.

Dean exhaled a sob, his aim dropping as he fell to his knees beside his brother.Sam's body was pliant, and Dean rolled him easily onto his back, scooping the kid protectively into his arms before casting a wary eye to his father.

John was still standing, his hands by his sides, but his face hard. "It's time to fall in line, Dean," his father warned. "One way or another. If Sam can't understand that, then he'll just have to learn the hard way."

Sam had always had to learn the hard way. The strict punishments of Sam's teenage years were things Dean liked to forget, but they were nothing compared to this.

Dean had made a plan. He'd had one goal coming in here.

Now, holding his brother in his arms, listening to his father's not-so-idle threats, Dean realized that no plan he had would work. No subterfuge he could muster would suffice. This was their father, who knew them inside and out, who knew their strengths and their weaknesses--and how to overcome one by exploiting the other.

And Dean didn't know what to do.

He had no more plans for this. He had no more solutions. He had _nothing_.

"Just know, I could have you now," John said, stepping backward. A ring of fire erupted around him, surging from the candles into a full-blown blaze. "But I want a good soldier. Not a servant."

The threat was not lost on Dean. Its implications were as ominous as they were vague. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that this _wasn't_ their father. It couldn't be. This wasn't the man Dean had spent his entire life following. The man he had looked up to, idolized, respected. The man Dean had defended, supported, and believed in.

It wasn't John because whatever _this thing _was, it'd just tried to kill his brother.

The one unforgivable sin. The one thing, above all else, that made Dean know that this _thing_, whatever _it_ was, wasn't their father.

Worse, Dean hadn't been able to do a damned thing about it.

Heartbroken, Dean looked at his brother. Sam was still limp in his arms, but Dean could feel the slow pounding of Sam's heart as he was cradled against Dean's chest. Sam's eyes were still closed, though, his lips tinged with a light dusting of blue, even in the growing glow of fire.

"You're soft, son," the thing with John's face continued. "You walked right into this trap, with your baby brother in tow, no less. I need you sharp. Bringing your best game."

Dean just shook his head, his eyes stinging from the smoke. "Why?" he asked.

Its lips twisted into a smile. "Because the next time I catch you," it said. "There's going to be hell to pay."

With that, the thing stepped backward into shadows, disappearing entirely as the flames flared up with new vigor. The smoke was thick and cloying, and Dean coughed against it, burying his head into Sam's hair.

Squinting, he realized it was time to move--and fast. The fire was spreading quickly, consuming the altar easily and spreading along the floors. Dean knew once it reached the walls, the place would go up like a tinder box, and Dean didn't need to be around for that.

He had failed at one thing today, and he wasn't about to fail at another.

With another cough, Dean hauled himself to his feet. Sam slipped awkwardly from his grip, and Dean grappled roughly to regain a hold on his brother. It took some maneuvering, but he hauled Sam over his shoulder. Steadying himself, he repositioned his grip, with on hand tight around Sam's leg and the other on his brother's arm.

Then, with slow and unsure steps, Dean moved forward. For the third time in Dean's life, he pulled his brother from the flames.

-o-

The sunlight was blinding and it took all of Dean's effort to keep running to clear the building. He could still feel the heat of flames at his back as he desperately gulped for the fresh mountain air.

He didn't stop, though--not yet. He carried Sam farther, grip still tight on his brother's prone form. He had to get Sam out of here--to get Sam safe.

There was an explosion behind him which shook the area with enough force to make Dean stumble. He hit the ground with his knees and it took more strength than he thought he had to keep from dumping Sam unceremoniously to the ground.

As it was, his adrenaline was spent. With a heaving breath, he eased Sam from his shoulder, resting his brother on the ground before dissolving into hacking coughs.

For his part, Sam curled away, gasping a sharp inhale that was exhaled as a cough.

Together, they sat like that, Dean on his haunches and Sam on the ground, struggling and fighting just to breathe. Dean's throat felt tight and strained and his lungs worked hard for oxygen that just didn't seem to be there despite the open expanse around them.

With a shuddering inhale, Dean forced his body to still, working to keep his lungs from rebelling against the act of breathing. Squinting up, he looked back at the warehouse. The flames had spread fast, licking at the windows as smoke billowed into the sky.

Their father was gone--Dean wasn't sure if John had even survived Hell or where he was now.

The thing wearing their father's face was gone as well--where, Dean wasn't sure, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The fire would be attracting attention soon. As remote as the area was, the smoke would be a telltale sign for miles that something was amiss. He had to get Sam out of here--and fast. Before "help" arrived, or worse--that _thing _came back.

Turning his attention to his brother, he found Sam still wheezing on the ground. With steady hands, Dean pulled his brother up, propping the kid up so he was sitting.

"Breathe, Sammy," he said, rubbing a gentle hand on his brother's back. "Just breathe."

Sam labored a moment longer, his coughs tapering off and his breathing calming a little. He turned his soot covered face up to Dean and met Dean's eyes with fear and brokenness."What happened?"

The question was legitimate--more than that, it was necessary. What had happened in the warehouse was important. What had happened in the warehouse changed everything.

Dean had gone in to bring his family back together.

He had come back out with the horrible truth that it might never happen.

It wasn't just that their father might be back from the dead--after all, Sam had been there and done that, too. It wasn't even just that their father could be working with the Yellow Eyed Demon. It wasn't even the black eyes. Dean could handle any of that and still have hope.

Their father would never hurt Sam, much less try to _kill _him. That was the point of no return, the straw that broke the camel's back, and Dean had to believe--he _had _to believe--that his father was better than that. Even after Hell.

_There's going to be hell to pay._

Dean looked back at the warehouse, and watched as the flames engulfed the ceiling.

"Dean," Sam said again, his voice raspy and imploring. "Tell me what happened."

But Dean didn't know what to tell Sam. He didn't know what to do next. He didn't know where _that thing _was going.

He just knew that he didn't want to be around--he didn't want _Sam_ to be around--to find out.


End file.
